


Nacho Cheese

by janvandyne



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Marijuana, Shotgunning, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:51:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8319805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janvandyne/pseuds/janvandyne
Summary: “Hey, Bucky? What do you call a person who’s in love with someone who’s in love with someone else?”





	

“Hey, Bucky, what do you call cheese that’s not yours?”

Bucky looks down at you, baby blue eyes red-tinged and heavy-lidded, a cloud of smoke billowing from his parted lips. His brows furrow in confusion but the corner of his mouth quirks up in a small, curious smirk. He holds your gaze for a heartbeat before responding.

“What?” he asks, and from his tone, you don’t know whether he’s responding to your question or doesn’t know what you said, but you answer the former anyway.

“Nacho cheese,” you say.

Bucky cocks his head. “Wait, what?” he asks, passing you the joint that the two of you have been sharing.

“What do you call cheese that’s not yours?” you repeat. “Na-cho cheese.”

You take a hit of the joint as Bucky shakes his head. “Pft, even I know that was corny,” he says, his words coming out in front of him in tufts of frosty air.

It’s chilly, but not freezing, but you know that Bucky doesn’t like the cold at all. He staves off the chill with a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, some socks and size 14 bunny slippers Sam got him as a joke. You brought a blanket out for him earlier and he has that draped over his shoulders, wrapped around his front and flowing out behind him like a cape.

He looks… warm. And soft and gentle and so much like Bucky and nothing like the Winter Soldier and you can’t even look at him for too long because every second that you do you just fall harder and harder. But you can’t look away either, because he’s smiling, and it may just be the high, but happy looks so damn good on him.

“Fine,” you say, looking up at him from your place on the porch stairs two steps down. “You do better.”

“Ok,” he responds, then licks the front of his top teeth as he thinks. “What do you call a blind dinosaur?”

You tilt your head. You think you know this one, but your brain is fuzzy. You can’t think of anything beyond Bucky and the weed and the clear night sky and the crisp, cold air. You smile at his smile and ask, “What do you call a blind dinosaur, Bucky?”

“Do-you-think-he-saur-us,” he says, then starts giggling.

The sound makes goosebumps spring up on your thighs in the space where your shirt and socks don’t meet. Steve’s shirt, you should say, or Bucky’s, maybe. All you know is that it’s soft and thick and warm and you pilfered the flannel button down fair and square a few weeks ago and no one has taken it back from you yet.

You pull your socks up higher on to your thighs and when you look back up, Bucky’s watching you, eyes tracking your hands’ every move. When he realizes that you’ve noticed, he doesn’t stop staring, but he does move from your thighs to your face, his gaze travelling from your own eyes to your nose to your mouth, then back up again.

You’re sitting sideways on the step, back against the railing, legs bent, feet on the same step in front of you. He’s sitting above you, at the top of the stairs, on the opposite side, long legs spanning two steps so that his feet, bunny slippers and all, are tangled up with yours.

You try to reach out to touch him, but when you do he just hands over the joint, mistaking your intentions. You take it anyway, brushing your fingers over his in an attempt to initiate more contact between the two of you. Everything around you is hazy and slow-moving, too far out of reach to touch, but Bucky is so close, always, the most real, most tangible thing in your entire world.

His eyes never leave yours, the red tint in them making them look all the more blue, shining and sparkling under the dim porch light. You take a hit, staring back, the silence surrounding the two of you from all sides and amplifying the casual intimacy that you’re sharing.

“What do you call a sleepwalking nun?” you ask, breaking the silence. And before he can answer you say, “A roamin’ Catholic.”

Bucky smiles and rolls his eyes before reaching out to take the joint from your fingers. You watch, really watch, as he brings it to his mouth, his pink lips closing around the joint as he inhales. He takes it away and exhales slowly, letting the smoke drift up in to the night sky.

It’s just the two of you here, now, Bucky and you. Steve is off somewhere being Captain America and you two are stuck in the Middle of Nowhere, Georgia, ten miles off of the nearest paved road. You would complain if it wasn’t so damn beautiful. The leaves are changing, falling, and the moon is so full and bright and close that you feel like you can reach out and run your fingers over its surface. And Bucky, even more beautiful, even more close. You can’t complain when there’s Bucky.

“What do you call a hundred year old virgin?” he asks, handing the joint back to you. He has a sly little smirk on his face, eyes half closed in a sultry stare. He doesn’t say anything until you reply, until he knows that he has your full attention.

“What?” you ask.

“Steve Rogers,” he quips, but he doesn’t laugh this time. He just tilts his head and leans it against the railing of the stairs, looking down at you to gauge your reaction.

You snort, take a second to think about what he said, then snort again. You turn away from him and look out in to the night. You can’t see past the trees surrounding the house, but it’s better than looking at Bucky whose gaze you can still feel like pin pricks on the back of your neck.

“Is Steve really a virgin?” you ask. You try to be nonchalant about it, but you should know by now that Bucky can see right through you. Even high as a kite, even in the dark, even with your head turned, jaw clenched, eyes blank, and voice steady, he can read you like a book.

“Nah,” Bucky says, taking a hit. “He hasn’t been a virgin since ’34.”

Oh. Oh.

You can feel your stomach twisting itself into knots, wringing you out from the inside. You’ve always known that there’s something between the two of them, beyond the pining glances, beyond the fleeting touches. And the sound of Bucky’s voice, the wistful way he talks about it, about Steve, is more telling than anything he could’ve put in to words.

Thoughtlessly, you accept the joint he offers you and take a hit, mind somewhere else.

“You’re in love with him,” he says, and it’s not a question. He’s looking at you all matter-of-fact and serious as if he’s trying to catch you in a lie. But there’s no use in denying it.

“Yeah, and he’s in love with you,” you reply and take another hit from the joint. You figure you deserve it after that blindside. You exhale the smoke, wait a little bit longer before passing it back to Bucky.

“And you’re in love with him,” you continue. “And I –” am in love with you too, you almost say, but you catch yourself before you do. When you look at him, his brows are furled, eyes sad. “Don’t look at me like that. I knew what I was getting myself into before any of this started. It’s always been inevitable.”

He shakes his head and sighs before bringing the joint to his lips. You watch him as he closes his eyes and inhales deep, filling his lungs with smoke, then letting it out.

“Last hit,” he says as he passes the joint back to you.

You hold it between your fingers and get up from your place on the stairs. You kneel on the step below where Bucky’s sitting, settling in to the space between his legs. He’s soft and warm in his sweats and stupid bunny slippers, his body so inviting with the promise of comfort and safety. You want to wrap him up in your arms, hold him close, but you don’t. He does, instead. He encases you in his arms, bundling you up in the blanket that he’s holding in each hand so it’s wrapped around you both. 

“We can share,” you say, cradling Bucky’s jaw in your hand as you bring the joint to your lips with your other. He nods his head as you inhale, letting the smoke warm your lungs before tilting your head and exhaling, your mouth hovering over Bucky’s as he breathes in.

Bucky holds you close, arms wrapped around your waist, hands behind your back. He’s so warm and tender and gentle that it makes you ache. He fills you up, clouds your head, and you can’t even remember a time before this.

Before tonight, sitting on the rickety front porch steps, sharing a joint and time and space with him. Before he turned up at your doorstep, a day after Steve left to do some covert shit, with nothing but a bookbag and the clothes on his back. Before seeing him disappear in Phoenix and again in Kanpur, just the slightest glimpse, the barest hint of those bright blue eyes before he vanished into thin air. Before the fall of HYDRA and the gunshot and the wound you still have. Before, when he was just a ghost in a Bucky Barnes shell. Before, before, before.

If you had it your way, there would be no before, only now.

“Good?” you ask him.

He turns his head to blow out the smoke. “Good,” he replies.

“I think we can get one more out of it,” you say, and this time you move your hand from his jaw to the back of his head, running your fingers through his hair. You inhale the smoke then flick the rest of the joint somewhere on the porch behind him. Your other hand finds its way into his hair with its partner, and you tilt your head again, lips almost quivering as you let your mouth drift over his.

You exhale, lips parted, pouted slightly, slowly breathing smoke into Bucky’s waiting mouth. Slowly, slowly, wanting to make it last. You watch as his eyes drift close, coal black lashes fluttering against his cheeks. You lead him closer until your lips are almost touching. Just a fraction of an inch, and you’d be kissing him.

Just a fraction of an inch, after all this time. After chasing after Bucky with Steve. Chasing after him by yourself. After Tel Aviv and Nagasaki and Cape Town and Christchurch. After Bucharest and Montreal and Bucaramanga. Thousands of miles and thousands of hours and then after all this time that he’s been here, with you. After all this time and all that’s stopping you is a fraction of an inch. You could –

You could.

You pull back.

You’ve been planning on leaving for a while now, sometime when Steve is there so Bucky isn’t alone. Because there’s two bedrooms and two beds and there’s no room for you. Bucky has Steve and Steve has Bucky and you’re just some girl with a sorted past who got caught up somehow and has overstayed her welcome. You helped Steve do what he had to do but now there is no mission, none that you’re a part of, anyway.

So it’s time to go.

“Hey, Bucky? What do you call a person who’s in love with someone who’s in love with someone else?”

He sighs, scrubs his palm across his stubble, and then he’s looking at you in a way that you can’t even begin to decipher. “A fool,” he replies, quirking a corner of his mouth up in a small smirk, but the words still sting.

You say, “I guess I’m a fool twice over, then.”

You move forward and kiss him before he can respond. You don’t want to hear what he has to say, and if he has any objections he doesn’t pull away to voice them. He just holds on to you tighter, abandoning his blanket in favor of holding on to your waist, both arms wrapped around you, palms gripping your sides.

He’s so big, surrounding you completely, overwhelming all your senses. You can’t think of anything other than Bucky and his hands on your body, his arms holding your close, his thighs on either side of your hips, and his lips – soft and pink and pillow-plump, moving smooth and slow against your own.

Bucky lifts you up, effortless as though you’re feather-light. He sits you on his lap, straddling his thighs, presses his hips up while he pulls you down, and you can feel him through his sweatpants. He’s hard already, pushing against your clit, and if you know Bucky as well as you think you do, the only thing between the two of you is a thin pair of panties and his old, worn, sweats.

You two take a moment to just look at each other. He’s trembling, or you are. Either way, you feel your whole body vibrating, brimming with want. He cups your cheeks in his hands and you run your tongue over your bottom lip, tasting him again.

“Sweetheart…” he whispers, and it’s like a kick in the gut every time. He’s leaning his forehead against yours, brushing your cheekbones with his thumbs. “Sweetheart, do you –“

“Bucky, please,” you interrupt. “Just don’t… don’t say anything.”

“But –“

“Do you wanna do this?” you ask and he nods his head. “Then kiss me.”

He does. He kisses you again, slow and sweet and deep. He brushes his tongue along your lip, caresses it against yours. He grabs your ass and presses you against him even harder, rolling his hips up so you can feel how hard he is for you.

Bucky stands up, taking you with him, his hands on your ass, your legs wrapped around his waist. He walks up two stairs and then makes his way across the porch, lips never leaving yours. You feel the door against your back, and then him fiddling with the handle. It doesn’t budge, and after a few more tries, he gives up, his lips leaving yours to curse at it before he thrusts you harder against the door.

His teeth scrape against your jaw and he nips at your skin, nibbling down to your neck before softly biting your throat. You tilt your head to expose more of your neck, giving his teeth and tongue and lips more access.

He holds you up with one hand, pressing you between his chest and the door. Two of his fingers from his other hand find their way into the leg of your panties, smearing slick and grazing against your clit as he hooks them onto the crotch of the panties and tears them off of you.

He drops them on the porch at his feet, then slides his sweats down his hips, freeing his cock. He slides him arm underneath your thigh, then does that same with his other arm so that your knees are hooked over his elbows, his hands grabbing hold of your ass.

You can feel the tip of his dick against your entrance, gliding against your wet folds. You moan and arch your back, shoulders against the door, pelvis pressed against his. You tilt your head back, close your eyes, and tell him to fuck you.

“You sure about this, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice a low growl, and your heart skips a beat. You’re sure. You’ve never been so sure about anything in your life.

“Yes, Bucky. Are you?”

“That ain’t even a question,” he replies, his lips moving against your temple.

Slowly, so slowly, he sinks his hard, thick cock inside of you. You press your face in to his shoulder as he fills you up. You let out a harsh breath when he bottoms out, not even knowing that you were keeping it in this whole time.

You look up at him, quivering when you see those baby blue eyes staring back at you. He rolls his hips, grinding against you without pulling out, sliding even deeper inside of you than you thought possible. You gasp at the feeling, not realizing how empty you were to be this full.

Neither of you have bothered to take any of your clothes off, other than the panties that he destroyed. The shirt falls off your shoulder and he kisses the skin there. He nips a trail across your collar bone, he runs a light path up your throat with his tongue, buries his face in the curve of your neck.

“You love me?” Bucky asks, voice deep and rough, words are hot against your skin. He slides out of you, then thrusts back in, burying himself all the way inside of your cunt. He does it again, just as slowly as the first time. Then again and again.

“Yes,” you reply with a moan, relishing the leisurely drag of his thick cock inside of your soaking wet pussy. “Yes.”

Bucky picks up his pace, his grip tightening on your ass. He raises you up, lifts you off of his dick then thrusts back in to you. He feels fucking amazing, even better than you could have ever imagined. Even better than you ever dreamed of… every night… since Bucky showed up at your doorstep. And before, if you’re being honest.

He finds his rhythm and starts thrusting into you harder, fucking you deeper. Your back hits the door with every thrust, rattling its hinges. You bury your fingers in his hair, gripping the strands hard and he moans, pulling his head back so he can look at you.

“You’re in love with me?” Bucky asks, staring at you with that ice blue gaze. He looks wild, desperate even. You can’t look at him, so you close your eyes and turn your head, your lips still parted in pleasure at he continues you to fuck you.

He takes one hand off of you and slaps your ass hard. You cry out, snapping your head forward to look at him in shock. He has his bottom lips between his teeth, nostrils flared, a light layer of sweat on his brow. He looks dangerous and beautiful and when you still don’t answer him, he takes that same hand off of you, slipping his arm from underneath your leg so that you have to grip him tighter with your thighs, and captures your jaw in his grip.

“Are you in love with me?” he asks again, slowly, deliberately. He’s grinding in to you now, barely pulling his cock out of you, just rolling his hips to sink himself deeper into your cunt.

“Yes, Bucky,” you moan, almost sobbing between the pleasure and the intensity of it all. “Yes, yes!”

He moans too, nuzzling into the crook of your neck again, his hand coming down to wrap around the outside of your thigh. His pelvis is rubbing against your clit and you feel the tension coiling in your stomach, winding up tighter and tighter. Your thighs start to quiver, your body tingles, your back arches, pressing yourself further against him.

“Sweetheart, I –“ Bucky starts to say, but you don’t want to hear what he has to say to your confession.

“Please. Bucky, oh,” you cry out, “I’m about to come.”

He growls in to your neck, rolling his hips against you, fucking you through your orgasm. You move against him, too, rubbing against him the best that you can as you try to prolong your high, wanting to make it last before you both come back to reality and have to deal with whatever is happening between the two of you.

Bucky’s coming too, he tells you as much as he starts to pound in to you again, thrusting hard and fast as his fingers sink in to the tender flesh of your ass and thighs. He’s moaning, a low, deep sound that makes your pussy tighten around him in a fresh wave of arousal. He’s yours for this moment, not anyone else’s, and it’s you that he’s coming inside of, filling you up and make you his as well.

His hips stutter, slowing, and he finally stops. He’s still breathing hard and heavy in to your neck, his warm breath a small relief from the cold air around you. He pulls out of you when he catches his breath and puts you back on the ground. You try to stand on weak, wobbling knees, but you know you’d be on the ground if he wasn’t holding you up, arms wrapped around your body.

“Sleep with me,” he says, all soft and gentle now, and you’re shivering, but it isn’t because of the cold. “I’ll keep you warm,” he continues as if you need any convincing.

But you’ve already decided, tonight it your last night here. Bucky doesn’t deserve this burden, doesn’t deserve to settle when he’s in love with someone else. So you’ll stay with him, tonight. Share that second bed with him for the first time, keep each other warm and safe until he falls asleep, and by the time he wakes up in the morning, you’ll be gone, disappeared as if you never existed at all.


End file.
